


Answered Prayer

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angels, Anthropomorphic Personifications, Crossover, Demons, Gen, International Relations, Tea, fashion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:50:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale's angelic aid is required during breakfast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Answered Prayer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [byzantienne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/byzantienne/gifts).



Aziraphale was in the middle of a nice cup of tea and a gentle perusal of the world's follies* when it happened. One moment he was sitting in his kitchen, his feet toastily warm in his new slippers, the next he was standing in somebody else's bedroom, by somebody else's bed, the cup of tea half-raised to his mouth and the somebody else covering his face with his hands and shrieking in what was almost certainly - Aziraphale raised an eyebrow - high-pitched Polish.

"Excuse me," Aziraphale said politely. "I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere during breakfast. I wonder if you could possibly tell me where I am?"

"Oh my God," the person - a fair-haired young man who couldn't even be twenty, Aziraphale saw - squeaked indistinctly. "Oh, my God. Oh. My. God."

Aziraphale sighed and took the opportunity to finish his tea while it was still hot. Then he put the cup down on the bedside table and pulled the young man's hands away from his face.

"Don't cover your mouth when you're speaking," he said. "Really, young people today. Where am I?"

"My bedroom," his new friend said, his eyes wide and delighted. "You're, like, the answer to my prayers."

"Steady on," Aziraphale said, lifting his hands in alarm. "It's not that I'm not flattered, but I'm a little old for you -" He yelped as one of his hands was grabbed and he was tugged over towards the wardrobe.

"I'm, like, having a total wardrobe _crisis_ , and I was, like, praying and _praying_ and here you are, so have a look at these, and -"

"Just a moment!" Aziraphale said in what Crowley had irritatingly described as his "outside voice" ever since the demon had become hooked on children's TV as an antidote to hangovers. Aziraphale preferred to think of it as radiating a certain authority, like when you said _Fear not_ and meant, _You'd bloody well_ better _be afraid, sunshine_ , not that he ever spoke to humans like that, not like _some_ angels he could name. "Are you saying I'm _literally_ the answer to your prayers?"

"I'm a totally pious Nation, why _shouldn't_ my prayers get answered? I mean, I'll admit there were prayers in the past that were, like, of a more serious nature that I would totally have liked to get answered, but, hey, I'll take whatever the man upstairs is handing out!" The young man gave him a wide and cheerful smile and indicated the wardrobe again. "So, sharp sensible business suit or something in one of the fall colours? Can you _believe_ olive drab is in? I was, like, getting my fall wardrobe together and I was, like, _No,_ thank _you, I've like worn that too long and too many times, thank you_ very _much_. What do you think?" the young man said at high speed, whisking items of clothing out of the wardrobe and holding them against himself for Aziraphale's appraisal.

"That's a skirt," Aziraphale said, looking at the plum pencil skirt currently being held up.

"Well spotted. Well?"

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if he felt a headache coming on. "Are you telling me that everyone in this "pious nation" simultaneously prayed for me to come and help you decide if you should wear slacks or a skirt to work?" he asked plaintively.

"Dude," the young man said with heavy irony, "you'd be surprised."

"What makes you think _I_ can help?"

"You're an angel. Oh, come on, don't look all _Who, me?_ You've totally got a halo."

"Um," Aziraphale said in some embarrassment, "that's a perfectly normal metaphysical reaction. It happens every morning, but it'll go away by itself. Let's start this again," he said, before any retort could be made. He rather hoped that it was all a funny turn caused by something going wrong with his morning cup of tea, "where am I?"

"In my bedroom. Which is in my house, before you ask."

"Ah. And where is your house?"

The young man gave him the sort of _I am so very disappointed in you_ look that Aziraphale felt only Crowley was allowed give him.** "Poland. Which is why we're speaking . . . Polish?"

"Ah. And you are?"

The look evolved*** into a full eye-roll. " _Also_ Poland? _Duh?_ "

"Of course you are," Aziraphale said in resignation. "Do you have shoes to match your _ensemble_?"

"Like I said, _duh._ "

"Wear the skirt," Aziraphale sighed. He felt a definite headache coming on as the front door banged open downstairs and the sound of drunken singing wafted up to the bedroom. He was horribly afraid he recognised one of the voices.

Poland skipped out and hung precariously over the banisters. "Hey, Liet!" he said chirpily.

Aziraphale peeped over in trepidation, looking down at a grinning dark haired young man and an equally widely grinning dark haired demon. _Bugger_ , he thought.

"Tha-that is my friend Poland!" the young man exclaimed, pointing up at them. "The pretty one."

"An' that's 'ziraphale," Crowley slurred. "S'not pretty, but s'an angel."

"'Splains the halo," his friend hiccoughed.

"'Lo, 'ziraphale," Crowley hissed. "I've been having fun in Lith-" he stopped and giggled. "I mean _with_ Lithuania. Never knew these countries were so much fun."

"We're brilliant!" Poland offered.

Aziraphale drew a deep breath and forbore to join the conversation about which of all the bars in eastern Europe was best. "I'm going home now," he said, but no one paid any attention. Which was, he thought, all for the best, as he reappeared in his kitchen and put the kettle on again. As a precaution he didn't use the tea he'd bought from the Polish grocery, made himself a strong pot of what was reassuringly labelled as English Breakfast, and carefully convinced himself that nothing untoward had happened at all.

 

 

*Which usually resulted in a stern letter to the editor, once he had slightly calmed down from whatever _Telegraph_ article he had been reading.

**And the various archangels, of course, though Aziraphale was happiest when they didn't look his way at all.

***If you'll pardon Aziraphale's French.

 

In Lithuanian folklore, the devil is often a trickster, and can be a [friendly](http://sites.google.com/site/museumofdevils/) and sometimes helpful figure.


End file.
